


Sorta skater, punk rock, gothic

by goldenheadfreckledheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Minor Wells Jaha/Raven Reyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7965433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/pseuds/goldenheadfreckledheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Bellamy works at Hot Topic.</p>
<p>OR: the three times Clarke runs into Bellamy at work + the one time she doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorta skater, punk rock, gothic

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is not about punkrock!Bellamy, which I do hope to write one day. It is, however, about Bellamy working at Hot Topic, because I got a prompt to that effect approximately 239847 years ago.
> 
> Title from Hot Topic by The Gothsicles, because obviously.

Clarke doesn’t love Hot Topic.

Not because she has something against skulls, heavy metal, and the color black, but because she’s a little afraid of the looks she’d get if she ventured inside.

She knows it’s dumb. She’s an adult, and no one she sees at the mall is going to care where she chooses to shop. Most people these days just go there for Doctor Who and Harry Potter merch anyway, according to Raven.

Still. It makes her vaguely uncomfortable.

Today though, she ducks into the store with little hesitation. She told Abby she was taking a quick trip to the bathroom, and anything that prolongs the time she _doesn’t_ have to spend being shoved into dress after itchy, tacky dress is definitely a victory.

It’s a Tuesday morning, and the store is fairly empty, so she assumes her chances of avoiding curious looks are pretty high. Worst comes to worst, she’s always been a fan of Fall Out Boy and she has passable knowledge of Doctor Who, so she can look through their t-shirts with at least some kind of discerning eye if anyone challenges her right to be there. Which they won’t. Because no one actually cares.

Being forced to spend hours with her mother will cause Clarke to act about ten years younger than she actually is, apparently. So she saves Fall Out Boy as a worst case scenario, and takes her time perusing the nerd-merch.

She’s just moved on to the huge wall of pop figures when an employee appears at her side.

“Interested in pops, huh?” He’s brown haired, a little gangly, and smells vaguely of weed. “Anything in particular you’re looking for? I’m kind of an expert.” It’s a little haughty, the way he says it, but not in a way she can find anything but harmless.

“I’m just looking around actually. Thanks.” She offers a bit of a smile. He seems sad for about half a second before shrugging and moving along. Then she realizes belatedly that he’s also wearing goggles on top of his head and mentally high-fives herself for avoiding that conversation.

She’s been looking around for literally five minutes ( _five minutes!_ ) when she hears her mother’s voice. And because she’s pathetic and clearly not a proper adult, she ducks down behind a shelf of TARDIS mugs, where she can just see the dark haired employee—no goggles, she notes—who her mother is now talking to.

He’s not exactly the _opposite_ of the kind person she expects to work at a store that sells death metal t-shirts—that honor probably belongs to the stereotypical frat bro—but he does look incredibly out of place. Like ‘ _you look like the kind of person I would want to date, and that kind of person doesn’t usually work at Hot Topic’_ out of place.

She makes a mental note that this surprisingly specific sentiment probably arises from the fact that it’s been a painfully long time since she’s dated anyone, but then files it away for later, because right now she’s busy being a 22-year-old hiding from her mother in Hot Topic. Like a goddamn adult.

She can’t _quite_ hear what Abby’s saying, on account of the harsh music pumping through the speakers, but she can’t imagine any other reason Abby Griffin would be at _Hot Topic_ if not to look for her pathetic daughter.

And then, because the universe hates her, the employee turns from the register to look _straight at her_ and she can’t decide if she should be more preoccupied with the freckles strewn across his face or the fact that she’s about to get totally busted for hiding from her mother.

She can’t stress enough that this is not her finest hour.

To her surprise though, he just turns back to her mom and shakes his head, his face void of any emotion for the entirety of the interaction. Blissfully, her mother turns to leave and Clarke lets her shoulders sag in relief. And then waits a solid two minutes before standing up and walking over to him… because, again, a goddamn adult.

“I—uh. Thanks, I guess.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” he says without batting an eye, or even looking at her. “I just didn’t really need a belated teenage rebellion confrontation going down on my shift.”

Which. Okay. She can’t really ask for a better response considering she’s the one hiding like a five year old.

Still, she itches to defend herself. Just a little. She tries for charming. “More belated on her part than mine, to be fair. She’s decided that I’m not doing enough with my life and that she needs to drag me out to parties to ‘make connections.’”

He glances at her air quotes out of the corner of his eye, but makes no indication that he plans to respond. She opts for a change in subject.

“Your coworker smells like weed.”

His face scrunches a bit, before he catches her meaning. “What? Oh, Jasper. Unless he offered you some, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

And yeah, she can tell when she’s not wanted. Attractiveness be damned, she’s not going to hang around someone who doesn’t care to look past first impressions.

“Can’t have you saving the entire world, I guess.”

She nearly misses his small huff of laughter as she turns to leave the store.

-

She’s back at the mall before the week is out, to return the clothes her mother bought that, of course, don’t fit, since she never tried them on. She’s alone this time, though, which she prefers, and means that she can pick something that she doesn’t actually hate.

Once she’s finished picking out a much less flashy, and much cheaper outfit, she heads over to Hot Topic. Its Wells’ birthday next week and she wants to buy him a Hogwarts shirt, because clearly she’s lacking in creativity.

It does cross her mind that _he_ might be working again, but she tamps down on that fear pretty quickly. So what if he is?

She gets the answer to that question when she walks through the door and he greets her with, “Hey princess. Hiding from your mom again?”

“It’s Clarke, actually. But I appreciate the formality,” she retorts, words biting as she dips into a sarcastic curtsy, mood souring. She shouldn’t be this annoyed, but there must be something _about_ him that sets her on edge. “And it’s just me today. Drove here all on my own with my learner’s permit!” She gushes the last couple words, loading them with exaggeration and false pride.

And watches his eyes go wide. It’s pretty funny.

She breaks into dark laughter. “Kidding! Oh my god. You really _do_ think that lowly of me.”

He grumbles something too low for her to hear and runs a hand through his hair. “So do you need help with something or what?”

“Yes, actually!” she says, bright, “Do you have any Hufflepuff shirts? Most of the stuff I’ve seen is pretty heavily Gryffindor and Slytherin.”

He doesn’t respond, just moves out from behind the counter, which is fine. She follows him over to the Harry Potter trinkets where he kneels down to shuffle through the t-shirts.

“You a fan?” he asks, quiet and almost grudging.

“Of course,” she responds, because _everyone’s_ a Harry Potter fan, and if he wants pleasant conversation, she can do that, “But I’m looking for my friend. It’s his birthday next week.”

“You might be out of luck,” he says, stepping back from the shirts, “We don’t have much Hufflepuff stuff anymore. There might be a couple buttons and there’s a notebook that has all the houses.” He gestures to the display where all four banners stare at them from the cover of a spiral bound book.

“Alright, thanks.”

She does end up getting buttons and the notebook, and while he rings her up at the register he asks, looking pointedly at the bag in her hand, “More parties to attend?”

She honestly, genuinely, can’t tell if he’s making fun of her, or trying to make amends, so she opts for honesty, “No. The same one. I convinced my mom to let me choose my own clothes this time around.” She ends the sentence with a roll of the eyes.

He, of course, scoffs a laugh, and she tries not to let it eat at her. They’d been doing so well with this civility thing.

“Look. I’m not saying my life sucks. I’m pretty fucking lucky. I know that. All I’m saying is that if I’m forced to attend a party where the only other attendees are middle-aged rich white people, I’d rather do it in clothes that I don’t hate.”

He rifles through the drawer for her change before he responds, a little less haughty than before, “What are you wearing then?”

She squints at him. “You know that line only works if you can’t actually, currently see me, right? And even then, the odds aren’t good.”

Something like amusement crosses his face before he rolls his eyes. Which—good, she shouldn’t be the only getting annoyed by this conversation.

“You know what I meant.”

She does. “Jeans and a nice shirt,” she shrugs, snapping her wallet closed and returning it to her bag.

He laughs then—properly laughs—and she can’t deny it’s a nice sound. “Why do I get the feeling your mom won’t be so happy about that?”

“Because I exude that edgy, stick-it-to-the-man, rebellious vibe,” she says, grinning a little, nodding down at her floral printed dress, “Clearly.”

“Clearly. Look,” he rubs the back of his neck, looking like this is _his_ equivalent of trying on clothes with a parent, “Sorry for being a dick about the stuff with your mom. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Yeah,” she says simply, “You should have. But I’d have done the same thing if I was in your shoes—a prissy looking girl hiding from her mom? I get it.”

His response is so quiet she nearly misses it, “You’re not _that_ prissy.”

She laughs, “Well thanks for that, I’ll try not to let it get to my head.”

He’s grinning and about to respond—something witty or disparaging, she assumes—when her eyes catch on his nametag. _Bellamy._

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she muses.

“What’s it?”

“Your name. I knew you were too normal to be working here, even with the attitude. But with a name like that, it kind of all comes together. Jasper’s a stoner, you’re the asshole with the weird name.” She pauses. “No offense.”

“I’ll try not to let it get to my head,” he deadpans, echoing her words back to her, “Nice theory you’ve got there. Do you ever think they just hire the first vaguely competent person who walks through the door?”

“That wouldn’t explain why they’re not at my feet, begging me to apply.”

He laughs again—and really, it’s _such_ a fucking good sound—then snaps his fingers as if realizing something, “Oh, but see, they also have a ‘don’t hire arrogant assholes’ clause. So,” his eyes meet hers, humor dancing in them as he shrugs, “Guess you’re out of luck.”

It’s about then that she realizes she’s long since finished her purchase. And that she’s still standing here, talking to the hot, snarky Hot Topic employee because she _wants_ to.

He smirks at her for a second—and dammit if she can’t help smiling back—until a crash from the back of the store has him whirling around.

“Jasper! Dammit.” He turns back to her for a second, inclining his head toward the commotion, “Duty calls.”

“I won’t keep you.” She smiles, small and genuine. “Bye, Bellamy.”

She walks away before he responds, a little shocked by her own change of heart, but she still catches his quiet, “Bye Clarke.”

-

(She might mention him to Raven and Wells when they’re celebrating the latter’s birthday, and then she’s basically screwed because her best friends _suck_.)

-

The party _also_ sucks, as anticipated, and she excuses herself the second it starts to wind down.

And because she’s never been able to stomach escargot or any of the other strange hors d'oeuvres her mother’s friends like to serve, she parks in front of the closest Taco Bell she can find.

Then she walks inside and proceeds to choke on her own breath at the sight of Bellamy behind the counter.

“Do you have a twin brother who works at Hot Topic?”

He takes one look at her, eyes going a little wide, before looking back down at the register, “Shut up. And get out of my restaurant.” It would sting if his face didn’t fall into an amused expression after a moment.

She opens her mouth open to respond when another, slower voice rings out behind her, “Oh, whoa…aren’t you that girl from the other day?”

She really shouldn’t be surprised when it’s the stoner kid from the store.

She turns back to Bellamy, grinning delightedly. “Oh my god. Jasper works here too? That’s kind of adorable.”

“Jasper,” he says, emphasizing his… _friend’s?_ name with a glare in his direction, “does not work here. But unfortunately from me, his co-stoner friend _does._ Which means he’s here all the time anyway.”

Just then, a dark haired boy appears beside Bellamy, at the registers. “What about Jasper? He’s not pulling out all the napkins again is he?”

Upon noticing Clarke, he startles a little, “Oh! Sorry…”

Clarke has to force herself not to laugh.

“It’s fine,” says Bellamy, who looks for all the world like he’d like to die right here, “I’m fairly sure Clarke’s opinion of us can’t get any lower.”

She nods in agreement, tossing Bellamy a grin and watches as he returns it, just a little, a bit of the stress leaving his shoulders.

“Are you the stoner friend?” she asks, turning back to the other boy, “Because you seem remarkably…not-stoned.”

“Monty,” he responds, holding out his hand and looking not the least bit offended. “Jas and I have different strategies in our recreational drug use. Namely, he gets high on the job and I try not to.”

Clarke’s having a lot of trouble not liking Monty, who’s now grinning at her like they’re best friends.

“What about Bellamy, then?” she asks, “What his drug strategy like?”

Jasper and Monty scoff in unison before the latter responds, “Bellamy’s too straight-laced for anything like that. Besides, he lives to keep us all in line.”

“Some poor soul has to do it,” Bellamy grumbles. “You want something, Princess?” he asks after a second, which effectively ends the conversation, because yeah, she’s starving.

Clarke stakes out a booth and Bellamy delivers her burrito to her a few minutes later.

She’s a little surprised when he slides in across from her. She raises her eyebrows in question.

“I’m on my break.”

She nods and doesn’t bother keeping herself from staring at his freckles. She deserves it, she justifies, it’s been a long night.

“Am I wrong to assume this is you, post horrible party?”

“That obvious?”

“That bad?” he fires back.

She sighs, takes a bite of her burrito, and chews, before responding, “My mom means well, but I am aggressively _not interested_ in going to medical school. At least I’m not an artist. I was about half a second away from going to art school, except that think she would have disowned me.”

Her words come out jumbled, but whether it’s the effect of the party or Bellamy’s gaze remains a mystery.

“What are you then?”

“Cognitive scientist, or going to be. Grad school.” she manages, around a mouth of burrito. Because clearly, the _talking to a cute guy, be_ _cool_ message hasn’t made it to her brain through the filter of _I’m so tired and I just want to eat._

It doesn’t keep her from laughing at his perplexed, “What the fuck is cognitive science?” and he actually looks interested when she explains, so she figures she’s doing okay.

She finds out he’s studying history at the local community college, and maybe _snarky guy who’s seen her at her worst and is also a nerdy historian_ shouldn’t be attractive to her, but it kind of is. It baffles her that this is the same guy she swore she never wanted to see again a week ago.

And because clearly they’re doomed to never having a full conversation, Monty shows up to tell Bellamy he’s already ten minutes past the end of his break.

-

“Ask him out. This isn’t hard,” Raven tells her the next day. Because apparently the only thing worse than letting her best friend make fun of her stupid crush is having to stew in it alone.

“I know that,” she says. And she does, objectively. But she’s never had a crush on a Hot Topic employee before, so it feels like new territory. “Plus, I could get him fired.” Getting fired for being asked out by a customer is a thing, she thinks. Or at least if he says yes, which maybe makes it a non-issue, since her optimism isn’t abounding at the moment.

“Fired,” Raven deadpans. “From Hot Topic. How terrible.”

“Hey, for all you know he needs the job,” Clarke quips back, automatic. Not that she knows that for sure, but he did mention community college, and he doesn’t exactly feel like the kind of person who works at Hot Topic because he _loves_ it. “Besides, I don’t even know him. He’s just…a guy who’s been my cashier several times,” she defends, which isn’t strictly true, considering that the knowledge she has of Bellamy’s life goes far beyond what anyone should know about the person ringing up their fandom related knick knacks.

Raven just shrugs. “Whatever. You’re coming to the festival this weekend, right?”

Clarke gratefully accepts the change in topic. “Right.”

And as unrelated as _music festival_ should be from _Bellamy_ , it doesn’t keep her brain from making the connection, because if she scopes out any new bands this weekend, she might have to visit her local Hot Topic… just to see if they carry any merch.

\--

The festival is, honestly, pretty awesome, even outside its contribution to stalking her crush. She, Raven, and Wells check out some awesome indie groups, and she actually does have a working list of bands she’s going to look up on spotify later.

Around mid-afternoon, they wedge themselves into a fairly good spot in the crowd for one of the larger acts that Wells wanted to see, a female lead rock group from Tennessee. It seems like a good idea, being fairly close to the stage, until about ten minutes before the group is set to take the stage. The crowd grows restless, those in the back pushing against those in front, and the tight quarters get even tighter.

It’s uncomfortable, but not detrimental until Clarke loses track of Raven and Wells before she even _realizes_ they’re being shuffled apart. She spends about thirty seconds freaking out about that before figuring that getting back to them is a lost cause. She’ll be able to find them after.

The next wave of eager concert goers rewards her with a jarring shove forward, leaving her with no choice but to brace her hands on the back of the guy in front of her to keep from falling over.

“Sorry,” she says to his shoulder, pushing back a little. Because she has _manners_ , unlike the person whose elbow has just wedged itself into her back.

She doesn’t actually expect a response from the guy in front of her, but then he’s turning around… and then he’s _Bellamy._

“Clarke?” His voice is always deeper than she remembers, and it does bad things for her. Or good things, depending on how you look at it. He looks like he’s surprised to see her, shocked, but then his face shifts into a smile, almost like he doesn’t mean for it to, and it’s enough to spark her optimism.

“Bellamy!” She’s probably smiling wider than is necessary. _Stupid_ crush. “What are you doing here? This doesn’t seem like your usual scene.”

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

It’s still dawning on her that he’s _here,_ and that this festival is supporting her crush in a much more tangible way than she’d been expecting. She can’t help a laugh. “No sarcasm. I wasn’t under the impression that you work at Hot Topic because you have a deep and vast love for punk rock.”

He quirks a grin at that. “You don’t know that.”

She grins back. “No, I don’t.”

After a beat, he scratches the back of his head. “I work here, actually.” She wonders if he means for it come out hasty and jumbled. “I’m on my break.”

She’s pretty sure her mouth drops open. “No way.”

Honestly, what are the chances? She’s torn between being happy to see him and lamenting that they’re clearly _never_ going to interact when he’s not on the job. Has she mentioned crushes are dumb?

“Um, yes way?” He looks a little unsure about it, like she’s actually starting to persuade him he’s not on the clock.

“It’s just kind of crazy, right?” she explains. “I’m definitely not deliberately stalking you to your places of employment—”

He raises an eyebrow, and his freckles are more than distracting, at this close of quarters.

“Shut up,” she scoffs, swatting his shoulder. It’s definitely too familiar of her, but now she knows his shoulder are very _firm_ , so she can’t really regret it. “I’m _not_. Which makes this a really ridiculous coincidence.”

He shrugs it off. “Well I work a lot of jobs.” She thinks his cheeks tinge pink, which she gets, but she’s never going to fault someone for not having money.

“So what do you do then? Here I mean.”

He shrugs. Again. The obvious discomfort making her heart ache. “Basically just crowd management, honestly, giving directions and keeping people from being where they’re not supposed to be.”

“Except when you’re on break,” she tries, teasing. “During which you get to watch shows.”

“Right.”

A missing detail tickles at the back of her head, because she’s seen the festival staff, with their matching shirts, and she can’t help but notice Bellamy is lacking one. Not that he couldn’t have changed but…

“Seems like a pretty sweet gig,” she says, forcing herself to drop the train of thought.

He opens his mouth to say something, but appears to think better of it. His eyes narrow a little then, brow furrowing as his eyes scan the crowd around them, like he’s looking for something. “You’re not here by yourself are you?”

She can’t help the smirk on her face. “Oh my god, you’re the mom friend, aren’t you?” He scoffs, but before he can finish rolling his eyes, she adds, “But no, I’m not. Just got separated from my friends. I figure I can find them after.”

He groans, but he’s smiling and she’s glad. She hadn’t settled on whether her presence making him uncomfortable was a good thing or not, but making him smile definitely is. “This means I’m stuck with you for the entire set, doesn’t it?”

“I can squish my way through this crowd if being close to me is so repulsive to you,” she teases back, using the little space there is to angle her body away from him, like she’s actually going to try.

He catches her arm, makes a show of reluctantly giving in. “I guess you can stay here. I’d feel responsible if you got trampled by the crowd.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “My hero.” And because she’s feeling pretty good about the interaction, she says, with a smile, “Don’t act like it’s an inconvenience.”

He’s smiling back at her when the screams of the crowd erupt around them, making them both jump. But as her ears ring, she can’t find it in herself to be irritated.

The set is really good, and she sings along to the songs that she knows. Bellamy does too, seeming to have about the same familiarity as she does. And she _does_ almost get pulled away from him by the crowd until she feels his fingers, warm against her skin, twine with hers and pull her back to his side.

“See? You’d totally get trampled without me,” he says, mouth close to her ear so she can hear him over the music. It takes her considerable effort not to shiver.

She rolls her eyes instead. “Keep telling yourself that.”

She doesn’t let go of his hand for the rest of the set, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

-

Afterwards, they end up at a stand that sells spectacularly greasy pizza, comparing notes about the bands they’d seen earlier in the day over paper plates. Clarke sends Raven a quick text as they find a place at one of the picnic tables.

“So do you meet interesting people?”

“What, like in general?” he asks. “Cause now that you mention it, did I ever tell you about the grown adult who came into my store to hide from her mom?”

He’s grinning and she gives him a shove. “No, _prick_ , I mean here.”

It takes him a second to catch her meaning, and then he shrugs, overly casual. “Mostly druggies. There was a girl last week who told me I’d look really good with eyeliner.”

She hums, “Honestly, yeah, I could see that working for you.” And because she’s like 90% sure and he might as well stop being an idiot, she says, “So why did you lie?”

“About what?”

“About working here? Why, did you lie about other things?”

“Uh, no.” He scratches the back of his neck, red racing up his neck. “That was definitely meant to be a confused ‘ _about what’_ , not a I-can’t-keep-track-of-my-lies ‘ _about what.’_ ”

“You really don’t need to keep covering it up,” she says, skipping over his kind of adorably pedantic explanation. “Like, I’m not sure what reason you have to lie to me about working at a music festival, but I’m pretty sure it’s a stupid one.” He’s still looking like he’s going to defend the lie, so she adds, “Unless your job is incredibly awesome and lets you take 3 hour breaks.”

He checks his watch, like he didn’t actually realize he’d been with her that long, and then lets his head _thunk_ against the table. “I didn’t really know how to interact with you outside of the customer service framework.”

“God, I didn’t think I was that bad,” she says only half serious. “Like, yeah, I’m good for a couple princess jabs, sure, but I’m pretty okay most of the time.

“It’s not you,” he says, impossibly redder now, “You’re…cool. I’m just, not good at socializing. I’ve got years of my sister’s teasing to prove it.”

“Sister?” she asks, interest piqued, filing the ‘cool’ comment away for later.

He nods, but doesn’t seem inclined to say more. He’s still red, and it’s very endearing. And encouraging.

“This is me prying, by the way,” she says, keeping the giddy warmth in her chest under wraps. “Like, you can definitely tell me it’s none of my business, but I am really asking.”

“You want to know about my sister?” he asks, surprised.

“Yeah? I feel like we qualify as friends at this point. And friends know about each other’s siblings. I, for instance, have none, so you’re all caught up on that front.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think you were going to let me off the hook for the lying thing so easily.”

She raises an eyebrow, “We could go back to that, if you want.”

He laughs, short and happy, and she kind of wants to bottle the sound. “Okay, yeah, fair enough,” he says. “Her name’s Octavia. She’s five years younger than I am.”

After learning that he basically _raised_ his sister, and still works multiple jobs to pay for her education, Clarke is proportionately more smitten, and they head over to the bar tent for drinks.

Raven and Wells stop by to check in, and Bellamy gets a round of introductions, but eventually her friends peel off to their own table—Raven only winks _once_ so, honestly, Clarke can’t complain—and she and Bellamy head outside for some fresh air.

She’s a few drinks in when she says, “You know why I first thought it was weird that you work at Hot Topic?”

“Because I’m strikingly normal, I assume.”

“Because you look like someone I’d want to date.” If she were slightly more sober she might have noticed the catch in his breath. “And then you were all grumpy and snarky—,”

“And you realized, _wow, this guy is an asshole_.”

She shoves against his arm. “And I realized, that’s kind of my favorite thing in a person.”

His cheeks are definitely pink underneath the freckles. “Jesus, that’s a terrible thing to look for in a person.”

“You should ask me out,” she says, soft, leaned up against his shoulder.

There’s a moments pause, and then— “Clarke, will you go out with me?” he asks, obedient.

She barks a laugh.

When she looks back at him, she finds his eyes already on her, steady and serious. “Well?”

She swallows. “Really?”

“Was the whole awkwardly-lying-about-my-job-because-you-make-me-nervous thing not confirmation enough?”

Grinning, she holds a hand out toward him. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?” he asks, already reaching into his pocket.

“So you can ask me again when we’re both fully sober.” She says, entering her number.

“Both?” he laughs. “You’re the one who told me to ask.”

“Yeah, but drunk Clarke might be making a terrible choice.”

His face falls, like really fucking visibly, and it’s hard not to kiss him right there. She catches his hand in hers instead.

“But probably not,” she says, settling for pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Raven and Wells flag her down soon after, the former nearly asleep on her boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Text me tomorrow so I know you didn’t die on the way home,” she says, turning back to Bellamy. She’s not too drunk, but the night still feels like a dream, his fingers, still tangled with hers, fueling the warmth in her chest.

“I’ll text you.” And the meaning in his eyes tells her he hasn’t forgotten.

-

Clarke wakes up the next day with an inadvisable combination of nerves, excitement, and hangover. She’s been up for all of thirty minutes when she checks her phone, which buzzes in her hand with a text the second she picks it up.

She stares at the message, vaguely confused, until she realizes it’s actually the end of a string of messages. She scrolls up, grin already forming on her face.

 

**Unknown Number**

_so I’m not dead. though this headache is doing its best to put me in the ground._

**Unknown Number**

_also_

_do you want to go out some time?_

_preferably on the weekend, unless you want to date me over a counter_

**Unknown Number**

_this is bellamy by the way_

_I’m not sure if that makes this better or worse_

_better the babbling idiot you know, I guess?_

_god, I’m going to stop texting you now._

She knows that she really _should_ respond, and not leave him hanging, but she’s kind of an awful person, so she grabs her coffee, sweeps on a hasty coat of mascara, and gets in her car half an hour later to drive to the mall, texts still unanswered.

He’d mentioned working early on Mondays the night before, and sure enough, there he is, looking better than anyone should while working at Hot Topic. And he doesn’t _look_ like he’s on edge, which is good, she supposes. She’d feel bad if he had to go to work in state of Clarke-induced nerves.

_He likes her_ , she reminds herself, jittery excitement sweeping to her toes. It’s hard not to feel a little silly, excited over a crush, but she hasn’t felt this _happy_ in a while and…well, she’s got a good feeling about him, and that’s reason enough.

She makes her way inside, giving Jasper a quick wave where he’s organizing the t-shirt display before heading to the register.

“Is your manager around?” she says, once Bellamy’s in earshot.

He looks up, face falling into surprise. And a bit of apprehension. Her heart squeezes. _She’s so gone for him._

“Hardly ever. Why?”

“Jasper, Bellamy’s taking his ten!” she shouts. Seconds later, she gets a jaunty “roger that!” in return.

“Come on,” she says, giving him a grin and pulling him out from behind the counter.

“Clarke, come on,” he says, pained, “Can you just tell me—”

Once they’re out of the store and into the mall, she turns back to him, curling a hand in his shirt to bring his mouth down to hers.

He gives a soft gasp of surprise and her heart swells. Like there was any possibility she wouldn’t want to date him in the light of day. But before she has time to think more fond, fuzzy thoughts, he’s deepening the kiss, a hand at the small of her back drawing her closer, the other warm at her jaw. If she could bottle bliss, now would be the time.

They pull apart long moments later and he rests his forehead against hers before saying, dry, “You could have responded to my texts. I thought you were here to let me down easy.”

“Sorry,” she says, laughing. “I got too excited.”

“Yeah, you sound really torn up about it.”

“I am! It’s just not my fault that you’re so irresistible that I had to run over here to reciprocate your feelings in person.”

He’s definitely blushing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You knew that from the first day you met me. It’s not my fault you still want to date me.”

He grins then, catching her waist to pull her in again. “It is though.”

“Yeah?” she asks, more breathless than she intended.

“Yeah. Because you’re also smart and funny and fucking beautiful. How was I supposed to resist all that?”

She’s grinning so hard it hurts. “Are you going to kiss me again, or what?”

“Or what,” he says, all snark, and she has just enough time to smack his shoulder before he brings his lips to hers.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Paramore at Warped Tour one year, which is where the experience of being in a pushy crowd comes from. I do usually enjoy being on the floor/GA though. Just not when the crowd is full of screamo fans, apparently.
> 
> I'm always around on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)!


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